Pirates of the Caribbean : Isla del Cielo
by SlytherinPsyche
Summary: There is an island somewhere, spoken of in whispers, passed down in murderous legends, and yet two people are bent on finding it. Add to that a rebellious lass & lots of blood and gore, & you have a good-enough-to-re
1. The Time Has Come

**CHAPTER ONE  
_The Time Has Come_  
**

  
  
It was an unusually biting wind that roamed the deserted waters around the _Mary-Mercer_ and pushed the ship onwards, penetrating the sailors' flimsy shirts and chilling their lean bodies. The blinding fog surrounding the ship did nothing to improve the sailors' spirits either, for Arctic winds were never expected to wander the Caribbean Sea due to the latter's constant high temperatures, and the ship was well south of the Tropic of Cancer.  
  
But a cold and uncommon wind it was, though it did nothing to daunt the girl on the deck of the ship who leaned as far as she could over the railings without falling overboard. Her smudged and torn dress, bare feet, and dark copper waves of hair billowing around her shoulders gave her the appearance of a convict on the run, though she was, in fact, a rather wealthy heiress from the highest ranks of French aristocracy.  
  
Most peculiarly, she wanted none of it. Not the expensive dresses or carriages, nor the fancy associations that wealth and fame always brought. And especially not the constricting rules and regulations ever-present in the life of a noblewoman. She wrinkled her nose with distaste. That was what she'd have to be - a noblewoman. She'd have to marry some rich old goat and be an agreeable and demure little wife, bear him ten thousand children, and die a miserable wretch.   
  
She growled angrily and leaned further over the railings in protest. "I won't, I won't, I won't!" she chanted under her breath. "I'd sooner die than turn into a slave!"  
  
"Mercy! Mercy_, chérie,_ how many times have I told you not to lean over the railings?" called a man with a fashionable grey wig and plumed hat, striding up to the girl with an exasperated expression on his face.  
  
"Well, I don't count, do I?" Mercy snapped back, stepping off the railings and turning to face the man.  
  
"_Mon Dieu!_ What have you been doing? Oh, Mercy, you haven't been in the brig again, have you? Your dress is all torn and sullied ... and _where_ are your shoes?!"  
  
"I'll find them somewhere," replied Mercy, waving her hand vaguely. "And I don't care about my dress. It's so heavy and tight, and I'd rather wear men's clothing, anyway."  
  
"I don't like that attitude, Mercy Bellew." Mercy's father frowned at her sternly. "Though your mother would doubtless approve of it, were she alive, you will conform to - "  
  
"You leave my mother out of this!" Mercy flared up angrily. "You'll never let her rest in peace! And I won't conform to anyone's wishes, least of all yours. I hate you! I hate you and I wish you'd die!"  
  
Mr Bellew grabbed Mercy's arm in a tight grip and pulled his face close to hers. "I do not care what you think of me as long as you control your temper and behave in a respectable manner which does not include humiliating me in public. And if you disgrace me one more time I swear _up on your mother's grave_ - " (he paused in triumph) " - that I will disown you. Otherwise you are to be a well-mannered young lady and not a pauper's wench. And fix your hair," he added over his shoulder as he walked away, his expensive shoes making clicking noises on the deck.  
  
"I don't care! I don't care! Disowning me will not erase the memory of what you did to my mother! I know the truth, I saw it happen!" Mercy yelled at Mr Bellew's retreating back.  
  
But he did not turn around or give any ackowledgement that he had heard her. Instead of tying her hair with the ribbon wrapped around her wrist, Mercy dishevelled the reddish curls even more, twisting and tangling harshly. She then flopped down onto the deck and proceeded to furiously tear the folds of her dress until it looked that she was wearing nothing more than strips of cloth. Of course it didn't improve her appearance but it helped soothe her anger and stoke the fire of hate that blazed in her soul.  
  
This wasn't the first time she had been so enraged by her father, nor was it likely to be the last. She had had to live with him in close quarters for over a month, something that she wasn't accustomed to doing as she had been sent to a boarding school every year in England.  
  
But now there was no escaping him. Now they were in the middle of the Caribbean Sea where no boarding schools could provide refuge from his sharp eye and even sharper tongue. He always seemed to know how to rouse her anger, though it was usually the same way. With just one mention of Mercy's mother, Mercy was ready to blast her father into oblivion, if only she had a pistol.  
  
She would never forgive him for what he did to her mother, his wife. She had told the truth when she said she saw it happen, and she remembered every terrible moment of the incident. Of course, Mercy's father had not meant for his daughter to see the proceedings, but Mercy had always been a rebellious child and had kicked her bedroom door down when she heard her mother's scream that night.  
  
Oh, how Mercy had loved her mother! For Mrs Bellew never scolded or threatened her, like her husband was always wont to do. It was Mrs Bellew who protested against the enrollment of Mercy in a boarding school; it was Mrs Bellew who protected Mercy after the teachers at the school complained about her fights with the other girls; it was Mrs Bellew who had taught Mercy all she knew about seafaring and allowed her to swim at the beach in men's clothing.  
  
Yet it was Mrs Bellew who would have abandoned her daughter and sailed off on a stolen ship, partial to the pirate ways she had been forced to give up when Mercy was born. And she would have done it most unscrupulously, Mercy knew, had it not been for Mr Bellew's interference.  
  
Mercy could not imagine how her father had managed to persuade her mother to live with him. Nor was she able to understand why Mr Bellew had ever taken up with her mother in the first place. Mr Bellew was one of the most distinguished men in England, complete with a nice house, nice carriage, and seemingly nice disposition. His household knew better. Mercy knew better.  
  
Nevertheless, she was not afraid of him. She couldn't allow herself to be afraid of him. Otherwise how would she deal with him? She had been scared at first, having seen what he was capable of when pushed to the limit. But she remembered that she had been living with a murderous pirate who had not, in fact, committed a single killing for twelve years, just before the fear was able to step in.  
  
Although she had never really liked Mr Bellew much, Mercy dislike of him reached boiling point on that fateful night when she saw him as a criminal and a liar. Even now, as she sat on the cold smooth deck of the _Mary-Mercer_, hatred bubbled within her like a hot spring. She couldn't control it. Moreover, she didn't want to control it. She was tired of the rules Mr Bellew loved and yearned for freedom like a caged bird.   
  
She wished for her mother. She wanted to break free of her chains, just like her mother did. Yet no matter how much Mercy loved her, there was still a small voice in the back of her mind that liked to whisper how Mrs Bellew would have run off on a pirate ship without giving Mercy a second thought. Nevertheless, Mercy knew her mother would want to help her. Mrs Bellew did, after all, have some pity for her child. But where would she look for the soul of Aimone Blaire Bellew?  
  
Mercy rose to her feet and, with a mutinous expression on her face, stormed to the captain's cabin, deliberately thumping her feet on the floor as she went. Thankfully Mr Bellew was not in the cabin, nor was anyone else. It was a rather drab room with grey curtains, polished wooden chairs and table, and ugly-looking bed in a corner. On the pristine white tablecloth covering the table lay a golden pocket watch, a silver compass, and a pistol.  
  
Mercy stared at the pistol for a moment before carefully picking it up and strapping it tightly to her leg with her hair ribbon, covering her dress over the lot. Without giving the room another glance she briskly strode out of it and back up to the upper deck, her hands swinging loosely at her sides.  
  
Now the deck was filled with sailors and she could see Mr Bellew talking quietly to the Captain of the ship at the helm while the boatswain shouted orders to the sailors. Meaning to walk to the other side of the ship, Mercy turned but stopped when she heard her name called by Mr Bellew. She paused and then slowly, ever so slowly, she glided over to within two metres of him and stood staring at him through lowered eyelids, a small smile playing round her lips.  
  
"Good heavens, child! What have you done to your dress?" inquired Mr Bellew, shocked. "I will not have you walking around looking like a beggar. You will go down to your cabin and change immediately!"  
  
The smile on Mercy's face widened slightly and she shook her head. "Oh no, I'm quite fine as I am."  
  
Mr Bellew frowned. "I will have no nonsense from you, Mercy. You remember what I told you today so do as I tell you. It will only be worse for you if you don't."  
  
"You really think so?" Mercy shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I don't agree. You see, I have got it into my head that I don't want to conform to your wishes anymore. S'not much fun, you know, being someone's puppet. And I've decided that it's high time I rebel."  
  
"You will get these ridiculous notions out of your head this minute!" growled Mr Bellew, his face purpling with rage. "You will shut up and change your dress. I will deal with you later."  
  
Mercy grinned wickedly. "Well, shiver me timbers! I'm trembling with fright! Going to give me a hundred lashes o' the whip? A keelhaul, perhaps? Or maybe you'd be more comfortable to just get it over and done with quickly, just like you did with my mother?"  
  
Mr Bellew paled slightly, his hands balled into fists at his sides, and said in almost a whisper meaning only for Mercy to hear, "Your mother deserved it. She wasn't just a pirate, you know, she was a whore, too. And she loved it!" Mr Bellew's eyes widened in glee as he flashed Mercy an ugly grin. "Oh yes, your mother loved whoring. If she had been less of a pirate, she'd have taken the former as a full-time occupation. She forgot to tell you about that, didn't she?"  
  
By now the whole crew of the _Mary-Mercer_ was listening intently to the proceedings, each man frozen in his last task, all intent on hearing every word that was traded between Mercy and Mr Bellew. But Mercy had had enough. In one fast, fluid movement she hitched up the hem of her dress and whipped the pistol out of its bindings, focusing it on Mr Bellew's chest.  
  
"Any last words, Mr Bellew?" she said pleasantly, cocking the pistol. "I know you don't deserve the privilege but I believe in milking situations for all their worth, if you understand my meaning."  
  
"Just like your mother," Mr Bellew gasped, now whiter than his stockings. "I should have known you'd be just like her. But you will change, will you not? You will live up to your name, yes? Mercy? Mercy?"  
  
"You jest, Mr Bellew," replied Mercy softly. "Or you are merely stupid. The latter is most likely, of course; you never had much of a sense of humour." She paused. "Tell me, Mr Bellew, why should I change? What benefits could I reap then? I do not want to become the paragon of a perfect lady and I can guarantee that will never happen."  
  
"But you don't really want to kill me!" exclaimed Mr Bellew plaintively.  
  
"Oh, I assure you that I really do," contradicted Mercy. "I've had to wait fifteen years to exact mine and my mother's revenge on you. Today is surely a blessed day on my calendar. But don't worry, I will remember you and make sure to celebrate this day every year. For it is today that I break free of the chains you binded me with. It is today that I grasp freedom. But now I'm getting bored with this and I'd much rather quit. Say goodbye to the life you have wasted, Mr Bellew. You should hope that the devil is a creature of your nature for you'll need all the allies you can find in Hell."  
  
It took less than a second but it seemed like an hour to Mercy when she finally pulled the trigger and watched, in vicious triumph, as the blood spurted out of the bullet wound in Mr Bellew's chest as he lay, dead, on the poop deck of the _Mary-Mercer_ amid a shocked silence.  
  
  
**~ ~ ~**  
  
  
Although it was well past midnight and her nine o'clock bedtime, twelve-year-old Margaret Brooks sat on a plush grey window seat, gazing out into the darkness of Port Royal that sprawled before her.   
  
She had been reading before the colourful streaks of the sunset caught her eye, but the book lay quite forgotten up on her lap as she watched the sky and ocean alike turn an inky black as it had done every night for every year of Margaret's existence.  
  
Yet she never tired of the mixture of pinks, purples, oranges and blues that swirled across the sky every day that was graced with fine weather. While other girls of Margaret's age would spend their time dancing or playing dress-ups, Margaret watched the reflections of the sky in the water through her bedroom window. She would much rather have watched them from the deck of a ship, but because she was forbidden to go anywhere near the docks of Port Royal, this was quite impossible.  
  
Margaret's parents had both died in an accident at sea when they went out in a rowboat and got caught in a terrible storm. Margaret had been five years old the last time she had seen her parents.   
  
She had been born in Port Royal on the Caribbean island of Jamaica and lived there for the past eleven years of her life, although in utter misery which was due to the fact that her grandparents forbade her from all water activities.  
  
This prohibition is mostly what made Margaret Brooks odder than other girls her age. It was the water that had always been the biggest attraction for her and, when her parents died, it had grown into an obsession. She never tired of begging her grandparents to let her go sailing but they were adamant: Margaret was born on land and she would stay on land for as long as both of them were alive.  
  
And ever since that time when Margaret was nine years old and almost drowned when she slipped off the docks and fell into the water, her grandparents always made sure that she had someone with her whenever she went out of the house, which was a very tiresome thing indeed.  
  
And the fact that she wanted to be a pirate more than anything did not help the matter at all.  
  
Of course it was the oddest thing about her and often got her strong reprimands whenever she mentioned it, but no one could dissuade her from the idea no matter how many terrifying stories they invented or sharp remarks they uttered. So Margaret refrained from bringing the subject up with every adult in the house which meant that she could not talk about her decision with anyone.  
  
Nevertheless, the loneliness did not consume her for she busied herself with colourful plans of piracy in the future with herself as Captain of a large and beautiful ship, much feared and admired. She knew that she would get on the water somehow, whether it be perfectly planned or spontaneous. It was her biggest goal for the time being.  
  
She was suddenly jerked out of her thoughts by the sound of footsteps in the hallway which seemed to be heading towards her bedroom door. This had happened countless times before -Margaret had stayed up too late and her former nursery maid, Lucy Hamlin, came in to check on her charge before she went to bed herself.   
  
Margaret thought it distinctly unfair that she was not allowed to stay up till whatever hour she liked but, as Lucy had said on all those occasions, Margaret was not a servant or a pirate but a respectable young girl who had many things expected of her and who must obey her guardians to achieve those expectations.  
  
As Margaret forced her face into a scowl, emphasising her disapproval of the idea, her bedroom door opened and in walked none other than Lucy Hamlin, her brows knitted in a frown and lips pursed in a forbidding manner.  
  
"Not asleep _again_, Miss Margaret?" she asked, shaking her head. "How many times must I remind you of your bedtime? And look!" Her hand flew to her forehead in shock. "Sitting by an open window _again!_" Crossing the room and snapping the window shut she hissed, "Haven't I told you time and time again how bad it is to be sitting by an open window at night? The chill is not good for you, Miss Margaret!"  
  
"But I was only reading, and then the sky looked so pretty that I couldn't help but look and think and think at it," protested Margaret.  
  
Lucy snorted. "All you ever seem to do is look and think and think. You really think too much, Miss Margaret. Come along now, to bed with you!" She ushered Margaret to her bed and tucked and smoothed the covers around the thin frame of the girl. "Maybe if you thought less and ate more you'd keep to your bedtime and wouldn't disappoint me."  
  
"I'm sorry, Lucy," Margaret apologised in a small voice. "I don't mean to disappoint you, I really don't."  
  
Lucy gazed at her for a moment and then her frown disappeared, replaced by a faint smile. "Eh, you _are_ a troublesome child but you can't help it. You're all right, really. Just not very good at followin' orders. But, then again, you're not a servant, are you? Good night then, Miss Margaret. And don't let me catch you out of bed when you're supposed to be sleeping again!" She blew out the candle on Margaret's bedside and bustled back to the door without another glance at Margaret.  
  
As the door closed behind Lucy and Margaret heard the woman's footsteps move away, she snuggled herself deeper into the warmth and comfort of the bed, trying to kill the temptation of going back to the window. She would have loved to sit and stare out at the moon which was attempting to wholly penetrate its rays through the curtains at the window but settling for the illumination of the book that Margaret had been reading before sunset.  
  
Sliding her feet out of bed, she padded over to the window seat and was about to close the book when a picture on the left page caught her eye. It was not the same one that she had been looking at before but it was just as well drawn and captivating, though the subject was not something greatly attractive. A pirate with masses of black hair and beard and a curling moustache was glaring at her from the picture, his cutlass drawn as he stood beside a chest of treasure on a sandy hillock of some island or another.  
  
There were not many books about pirates as it was a very tense subject at that time but Margaret had received it as a birthday gift from her parents on her fifth birthday, just as she was starting to read longer and harder novels. Mr and Mrs Brooks thought that the book would amuse her because she was so interested in pirates, not fill her young mind with ideas of danger and crime. Little did they know that the book was to be the base of her piratical dreams.  
  
Presently a fierce wind howled outside her window and the moonlight that fell on the book seemed to tremble, making it seem as though the pirate's eyes were glinting with glee. Margaret snapped the book shut and dropped it onto the floor as if it had burned her and jumped back into her bed, drawing the covers to her chin.  
  
The wind moaned and moaned, rattling the branches of trees outside her window, making her shiver though it never passed the barrier of the window. She was amazed at the sudden change of weather. It had been clear and quiet a few minutes ago and now the sky was clouded as the moonlight was no longer trying to shine into her room.  
  
The wind sounded as though it was whistling a tune unknown and incomprehensible to mankind, completely unrecogniseable and unpleasant to Margaret's ears. A tune only known and sung by those who had damned themselves forever to a life of crime and lust, and a love of things so wonderful and dangerous that men who lived on land could never understand the passion.  
  
Quietly, as though not to disturb, and ever so slowly a dark ship made its way into Port Royal, silently gliding into the bay like the best of thieves in the dead of the night. The sails were black as pitch as was the flag that rustled above it, except for the white skull on a background of crossed white cutlasses that leered down at the sleeping city in scorn.  
  
  
**~ ~ ~**  
  
  
"I want a ship," said Mercy to the paunchy balding man who sat opposite her who was swigging rum from a chipped mug.  
  
Having killed her father herself, Mercy had ensnared the undivided fear of the men who had sailed with her on the _Mary-Mercer_ and ordered the Captain of the ship to follow her orders and take the ship to the closest bit of civilised land, which just turned out to be the Isle of Tortuga.  
  
It was a place much feared and disrespected by sailors though prized by pirates who often used it as a stopover and other criminals who occupied its soil as a place of permanent residence. Tortuga was most famed for the violence, crime and alcohol that flourished among its inhabitants; so much, indeed, that all attempts to put it under the control of the Crown had ceased just after they started.  
  
Mercy had heard her mother talk about the isle many times and was rather pleased to know that she'd finally get to visit it. Mrs Bellew had talked about it being a place of many opportunities because you didn't know what kind of luck you'd get that day or who you'd run into. Mercy remembered the time her mother had told her about how she stole a ship that was berthed in Tortuga for the night and transformed it into her own pirate ship.  
  
And this is almost what Mercy had in made: getting her own pirate ship. Except she was willing to pay for it with Mr Bellew's gold, rather than steal it. She didn't want any of Mr Bellew's property on her ship; it was bad enough having to put up with himself and she didn't want the memories to live on.  
  
So as soon as the _Mary-Mercer_ had landed in Tortuga, Mercy went off in search of someone who could help her buy a good ship, someone who had once been a friend of her mother's, someone who hopefully would be willing to be a friend to Aimone Blaire's daughter.   
  
After running around and questioning the populace of Tortuga for half a day, she finally found the man she was looking for and summoned him to a pub where she could intoxicate him with drink until he acquiesed.  
  
"I want a ship," repeated Mercy to Mr Gibbs, who was taking another hearty gulp of rum.  
  
Setting down his mug on the table with a loud _clank_, Mr Gibbs wiped his mouth with the already sullied sleeve of his shirt. "And why're ye askin' me, missy?" he asked disinterestedly.  
  
"Because you knew my mother," explained Mercy. "She would have wanted you to help me."  
  
"And who might yer mam be?" Mr Gibbs peered into her face with a slight curiosity.  
  
"Aimone Blaire."  
  
Mr Gibbs seemed to hunch up at the name. He nodded, giving Mercy a fleeting look. "Aye, I shoulda known it would be 'er. I thought I recognised ye from somewhere." He continued nodding but did not look at Mercy. "I didn' know she 'ad a kid."  
  
"Well, you do now. So, will you help me find a ship?"  
  
Mr Gibbs heaved a great sigh. "What d'ye need a ship for, lass? Yer on'y - what - thirteen? Fourteen?"  
  
"Fifteen," supplied Mercy impatiently. "Age doesn't account for anything. Remember Anne Bonny and Mary Read? Two of the best female pirates the world over. Hell, my own mother was sixteen when she became a pirate! I'm just a year younger."  
  
"A pirate!" exclaimed Mr Gibbs, seemingly shaken up. He frowned suddenly. "What d'ye want to become a pirate for, lass?" His frown deepened. "An' where's that scallywag of a mother o' yers, eh? Yer can't 'ave sailed 'ere all by yerself."  
  
"I didn't. I kind of commandeered a ship ..." Mercy trailed off, twirling a lock of her coppery hair. Mr Gibbs narrowed his eyes at her so she decided to ruthlessly press on. "On the crossing from England to Jamaica, I killed my father. Then I forced the Captain of the ship to take us to the nearest island which happened to be Tortuga. But I don't want that ship and I'm not going to Jamaica just yet. Not to live, anyway. I want a ship of my own and I need you to help me find one."  
  
By now, Mr Gibbs's eyes were round as saucers instead of narrowed to slits and his mouth was hanging open slightly. He rubbed his brow with one grimy hand. "'S amazin'. Yer on'y fifteen an' yer a pirate already. Commandeerin' ships an' killin' fathers ... but see here, lass, yer can't just go an' steal a ship, yer know. There 'ave been none berthed 'ere for nigh on a week."  
  
Mercy's lips spread into a smirk. "I'm not going to _steal_ a ship, Mr Gibbs. At least not today." She leaned in towards him. "I want to _buy_ one. And money can often fetch a pretty trinket pretty quickly. Don't you agree?"  
  
Mr Gibbs grinned, exposing yellow teeth. "I agree an' plenty. But just how much are yer willin' to cash in?"  
  
"Couple of chests of gold and my father's glittering finery ... and also - " Mercy pulled out Mr Bellew's silver compass and gold pocket watch, laying them on the table for Gibbs to examine. "Solid silver and gold. I'd image they'd fetch a pretty penny."  
  
Gibbs stroked the pocket watch fondly. "A pretty penny indeed. But like I told ye, we've 'ad no ships coming into Tortuga and we're - "  
  
"Don't you get a lot of _stolen_ ships berthed in Tortuga?" interrupted Mercy. "_Brand new_ ships, very well made and very expensive?"  
  
Gibbs surveyed her for a moment, apparently mulling her words over in his alcohol-muddled mind. "Aye, we do get 'em now an' then," he said eventually, another grin stretching his mouth. "In fact, if I remember correctly, we'll be gettin' one in under a week from Jamaica. Tha's what yer mam did when she got 'er ship. Stole it once and then twice." Suddenly the grin vanished and he became serious. "What _did_ happen to 'er? Yer didn' mention that yer killed 'er, too ..."  
  
"I didn't. My father - her husband - was the culprit."  
  
Gibbs's face softened somewhat. "Ah, poor lass. She was a good woman. Good pirate, too. Why did he kill 'er?"  
  
"She wanted to go back to the life of a pirate and he couldn't allow that. So - bang!" Mercy laughed sourly. "He became a criminal himself, though no one but myself ever found out the truth. Oh, and you."  
  
Gibbs nodded understandingly. "Aye, she always was too much of a free spirit. Couldn' stand being cooped up on land for too long. Should've been a bird, that one."  
  
"Well, she wasn't. She was a human being who was selfish enough to succumb to her own wishes. She wanted to run away and leave me with my father, Mr Gibbs! She didn't want me at all!" The nasty little voice in Mercy's mind had overpowered her and a flame of resentment burned in her eyes. She was about to carry on but stopped at the look on Gibbs's face.  
  
"Aye, lassie, that's how a real pirate is," he said gently. "True pirates, such as yer mam, for example, belong to the waters of the world and not to the land. All pirates know that and most of 'em feel it in their gut. Most of 'em give in as they can't live otherwise. The need drowns them, you see."  
  
A silence elapsed between them. Then Mercy took a deep breath and plunged back into the previous subject, "So, is that ship good?"  
  
Gibbs scratched his beard, thinking. "Supposed to be. 'S not a pirate ship but it's on its way to becomin' one, eh?"  
  
"Just make sure that you're ready to give the ship a makeover. I want black sails, crimson and mahogany furnishings, and everything else will be dark chestnut. Understood?"  
  
Gibbs scratched his beard again, looking puzzled. "Now where am I to get all that? Them mahogany things ain't cheap!"  
  
Mercy rolled her eyes. "Use the swag I'm giving you, you idiot. Believe me, there's a lot of it and by the time you've used half of it, that ship'll be ready for a king."  
  
"Aye, lass. That'll about do it." He proferred his grubby hand to Mercy. "We surely have a deal here ... Miss Blaire, is it?"  
  
Mercy hesitated for a fraction of a second before uttering firmly, "Yes, Blaire. Mary-Mercer Blaire."  
  
Gibbs pumped her hand vigorously, though looking rather thoughtful. "Tell me, Miss Blaire, why a pirate?"  
  
Mercy bored her steely grey eyes into his washed out blue ones. "I have my reasons, none of which I feel compelled to tell you."  
  
Gibbs shrugged. "Ah, well, it happens. A man can't know everything, can he?" He rose from the table, giving Mercy a small clumsy bow. "Shall we be off, Miss? On'y we've got a few valuables to unload."  
  
"Indeed, you greedy pig," responded Mercy with a disdainful sniff, watching and following Gibbs as he drunkenly weaved his way out of the pub and into the harsh light of the morning Tortuga sun. 


	2. The Black Fury

**CHAPTER TWO  
_The Black Fury_  
**

  
  
It was nigh on three o'clock in the morning when the howling wind abated and Margaret was finally able to sleep. Only to be awoken an hour later by the sound of screaming and cannon fire. She jumped out of bed and flung open the window. What she saw made her gasp in horror though she should have been rather overjoyed.  
  
A complete scene of terror and destruction lay before her eyes. Burning buildings, crying children, women running and shrieking in fright, and a couple of dead bodies lay strewn across the streets every few metres, some consumed by strangely blue flames. Impulsively Margaret raised her eyes to the ocean and her eyes widened in astonishment when she saw a ship bobbing in the stormy waves, so dark that it almost blended in with the pitch-black water.  
  
_Pirates._  
  
Margaret's knees began to tremble. She had finally got her wish. There she was, watching the primary subjects of her imagination as they sliced throats, bombed buildings, and carried sacks and chests of loot back to their ship. And she had wanted to be just like them.  
  
But they couldn't all be so bad. They had to have a captain somewhere and he might be better. After all, pirates weren't so different from the ordinary respectable citizens of Port Royal. They all did some kind of work for a living - pirates were thieves and Port Royalers were shopkeepers. The only differences were the morals of each party.  
  
A loud _thud_ and a high-pitched scream jolted Margaret out of her musings. The pirates must have broken into the Brooks' household already; she could hear them banging and yelling downstairs.   
  
She stuck her head out of the window again, noticing that there was no one in the area below her window. She'd just have to climb down somehow if she wanted to stay alive after this adventure, for Margaret wasn't sure the pirates would be merciful with her.  
  
Thankfully, the gardeners had not taken away the rickety old ladder that usually leaned against the wall just to the right of her window. Margaret leaned out as far as she safely could and snatched the rungs of the ladder, dragging the thing until it rested just below her window. She then hoisted up her nightgown and carefully lowered herself out of the window, making sure to hold on to the drapes in case she slipped.  
  
When her slippered feet finally touched the first rung of the ladder, she let go of the drapes and slowly moved down, down, down, until she eventually reached the mercifully flowering garden surrounding the house and jumped off. Just so the pirates wouldn't be able to escape from the window the same way she had she pushed the ladder away from the window and onto the ground, felling a bush of rhododendrons in the process.  
  
Margaret creeped through the garden, hiding in the biggest clumps of grass and flowers whenever someone came close, and broke into a full run when she reached the broken gates of the Brooks' house. She was able to dodge the pirates still on land as well as the bloody bodies sprinkled around the streets, and only stopped running when she reached the cover of the shadowed docks, panting and nursing a stitch in her side though otherwise quite unharmed.  
  
She hid in the shadows beside a group of barrels, watching as some of the pirates began rowing back to their ship, laughing raucously, their dinghys fair to overflowing with stolen loot.   
  
Margaret would later remember the moment and not understand what possessed her to do such a thing when she jumped down into a dinghy that had two large sacks in it. She peeked into one sack, which was full of artillery, and then the second, which was full of expensive-looking clothes. After digging a hollow amongst the clothes she stepped into the sack and covered the top of her head with the skirts of a dress, holding the ends of the sack in a tight grip.  
  
She didn't have to wait long. A couple of minutes later she heard a four or five pirates step into the dinghy and a _thump_ as they dropped their plunder on top of Margaret's sack, making her back ache terribly. The pirates immediately began rowing away, barking something unintelligible to each other at certain intervals.  
  
Before long they reached the ship and the booty was hoisted up on deck and unceremoniously dumped in a corner, causing Margaret to cry out in pain though, thankfully, she wasn't heard above the din. She heard a lot of shouting and stomping about, as well as more thumps and clatters as an increasing number of sacks were thrown on the pile. Then, all of a sudden, she felt the ship lurch sideways and nearly cried out in shock. It seemed they were on the move, sailing away from Port Royal.  
  
With young Margaret Brooks on a pirate ship. Margaret would have clapped her hands with glee if she could.  
  
Suddenly her ears detected the silence that had befallen the ship. There was no other sound to be heard but the wooshing of waves, the flapping of the sails, and the creaking of the ship. No other human sound. Margaret could not understand what could have caused the sudden hush so she loosened her grip on the sack and, with one eye, was able to see a long row of legs covered in dirty, mismatched apparel.  
  
All of a sudden her nose began to tickle; the dusty sack was inflicting its revenge up on her by trying to make her sneeze. She tried to move her arm to block her nose but it was stuck under something heavy. Finally she could take it no longer and, in complete dread, she let out a tiny sneeze.  
  
It should not have been heard by anyone for it was so quiet. But heard it was and Margaret watched in terror as a pair of caramel coloured boots made their way over to her, clicking on the wooden deck. Right in front of her nose they stopped. Without warning one of them kicked her in the side, causing a yelp to escape her throat. But it was enough.  
  
Her sack was picked up and emptied of all its contents, Margaret included. She fell on to her back amidst the fashionable garments and gasped when she saw who was standing over her.  
  
The woman was obviously a pirate as she was clothed in midnight blue trousers, a loose white shirt, cream-coloured vest, crimson sash that trailed to her calves, brown leather belt, and a caftan of the same colour as her trousers over the lot. As with most pirates she wore a baldric over her vest which supported two pistols and a sword that she had fastened her hand on. A captain's hat sat jauntily atop her curly copper-coloured hair, and a forbidding expression on her face completed the picture.  
  
"Well, what have we here?" she uttered, the dangerous softness of her voice betraying the rage in her kohl-lined grey eyes. Louder she said, "A stowaway, gentlemen! A stowaway on the _Black Fury_!"  
  
Margaret got to her feet and looked around at the muttering men who were all glaring at her murderously. Then, it hit her and she turned back to the woman. "_Black Fury_? This is the _Black Fury_?"  
  
"Well, it ain't very well the bloomin' Dauntless!" snapped one of the pirates.  
  
"Then - then are you ... pirates?" Margaret asked nervously.  
  
"Do we resemble the King's Navy in any way?" countered another pirate.  
  
Margaret shook her head, her eyes wide with amazement. She was on the _Black Fury_, the legendary pirate ship of legendary accomplishments. The _Black Fury_ was definitely one of the few ships to rival the _Black Pearl_ in its fame and notoriety, and the crews and captains of both ships were desperately wanted for the gallows of Port Royal. Margaret looked up into the face of the pirate woman and was about to ask another question when she was interrupted.  
  
"May I ask what exactly how you managed to creep on to my ship?" the woman inquired.  
  
"I - I just snuck into the sack on one of the rowboats when no one was looking and - and hid in the sack until you found me," replied Margaret tremulously.  
  
"And exactly what did a little minx like yourself expect to get out of the situation?"  
  
Margaret chewed on her lip, apprehensive about answering. She didn't think the pirate woman would take very kindly to her pirate fancy. Nevertheless, she straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. "I want to be a pirate," she said firmly.  
  
A short pause reigned before the woman let out a derisive laugh. "_You_ want to be a _pirate_?"  
  
"Now ain't that a flippin' joke!" exclaimed another pirate and the rest chuckled.  
  
"You'd be a pretty expensive pirate to be sure, what with that nightgown you're wearing. All ruffles and bows, eh? I'm surprised the bloody thing ain't pink!" More laughter from the pirate crew. "Whatcha name, girl?" Margaret remained mute though with anger at the woman's scorn. "What, cat got your tongue?" The crew laughed again.  
  
"M - Margaret B - Brooks."  
  
"Didn't catch that, sorry. I'd be amazed if the dust mites on your nightgown heard so much as a croak," the woman drawled.  
  
"Margaret Brooks!"  
  
The woman surveyed her through lowered eyelids for a moment before saying, "Bit scrawny for a pirate, you are, Miss Margaret. What are you, ten? Eleven?"  
  
"Twelve."  
  
"Twelve," repeated the woman, nodding. "I'd hate to imagine why the likes of you would prefer to starve yourself to death when there are people like us - " she gestured to the crew "- who don't get enough."  
  
Margaret frowned. The nerve of the woman to say that she was scrawny and even more for saying that she was starving to death! And how could the pirates never get enough when they raided ships and settlements at every given chance? "Who are you then?" she queried boldly.  
  
"Captain Mary-Mercer Blaire, at your service," responded the woman, the beads and coins somewhere on her person tinkling as she gave Margaret a little bow.  
  
"Otherwise known as Cap'n Mercy!" laughed one of the pirate crew, joined by the rest as Mary-Mercer Blaire smiled indulgently, a dimple appearing in her cheek.  
  
"You're really Captain Blaire?" breathed Margaret excitedly, forgetting about the woman's derisiveness. "I've heard _so_ much about you and your crew and this ship! But none of them were good things. You see, you have the _worst_ reputation in Port Royal and - "  
  
"Just like pretty much everywhere else in the world where there's a bit of land," shrugged Mercy. "Law-abiders think there ain't no good things 'bout pirates, love, and there ain't many o' the scoundrels who are favourites o' the law. Best remember that next time before you go gallivanting off to become an outlaw."  
  
"But I don't care! Honestly, I don't care about the law! I really _do_ want to become a pirate!" gushed Margaret, her face the image of eagerness and desperation. "I do, I do, I do! That's why I snuck on to this ship."  
  
"Your parents weren't pirates, were they?" asked Mercy suspiciously.  
  
"Unfortunately not, but - "  
  
"Good. Then there's even less potential of you becomin' one," said Mercy. "Trust me, love, you'd never make it." And with that, she turned her back on Margaret and began issuing orders to the crew. "Oh, and next time we land to pillage and plunder, make sure to check all the boats for anything unusual and unwanted and throw it overboard. One incident like this is enough," she barked.  
  
Before she knew what she was doing, Margaret sprang forward and was about to hit Mercy when the latter spun around in time to fasten her hand around Margaret's arm in a pincer-like grip.  
  
"And no wild antics from you, hear?" Mercy growled, her eyes spitting sparks. Margaret's cry stuck in her throat and she nodded silently. Releasing Margaret's arm, Mercy turned to a man with white stubble and wispy hair. "Ackley, get this little cretin something to busy herself with. I shall be in my cabin and do not wish to be disturbed until six o'clock." And without another glance at Margaret, Mercy stormed off to her cabin, her dark red curls flouncing behind her.  
  
"Get movin', wench," muttered Ackley, shoving Margaret forward. "Ye'll be scrubbin' the deck with Timothy an' I don' wanna hear a single peep from you. There'll be trouble otherwise."  
  
A thin boy with dishevelled brown hair and freckles sprinkled across his nose gave Margaret a furtive look from his place on the deck and then went back to scrubbing it with a soapy brush. He looked to be a year or two older than Margaret and she could see a pistol and cutlass tucked away in his belt.  
  
Feeling as though she ought to be friendly with him she smiled faintly and said, "Hello."  
  
The boy looked up at her with one eyebrow raised as though he'd never been greeted politely before. He shrugged, seemingly lost for words, and carried on scrubbing.  
  
"I'm Margaret. Margaret Brooks."  
  
The boy sighed and ran a grubby hand through his hair, making it stick up slightly. "Look, if yer goin' to spend the whole day chirpin' pleasantries then we're never gonna get this done. I ain't got no other help today."  
  
"Oh, I - I'm sorry." Margaret dropped down on her knees beside him, taking up another brush, dipping it into the water, brushing it across the yellow bar of soap, and began to scrub slowly back and forth, back and forth. "What about the other members of the crew? Why don't they help you?"  
  
"They're stashin' away the swag," was the curt reply.  
  
"Why aren't you allowed to help?"  
  
"'Cause I got to do this." The boy paused. "I'm Timothy, by the way. Timothy Truax." He paused again. "Ye were leein' when ye said ye wanted to be a pirate, right?"  
  
Margaret looked up to see him frowning at her. "Why does everyone think I'm so unworthy of being one?" she asked, irritated.  
  
To her surprise, Timothy chuckled. "Eh, don' think it's 'cause yer a girl. Cap'n Mercy made it an' so did the likes of Anne Bonny an' Mary Read afore her."  
  
"Then why can't I?" Margaret inquired angrily, scrubbing the wooden floor with ferocity.  
  
Timothy heaved another sigh and ran his hand through his lanky hair again. "Yer wouldn' be able to take it, fer one thing." He shook his head. "Jus' from lookin' at ye I can tell that ye'd never 'arm a fly. So how d'ye expect to go 'round killin', eh?"  
  
Margaret's shoulders drooped. Timothy was right - she wouldn't be able to kill anyone. She had never liked the idea of murder, moreover it if was she who was committing it. She barely repressed a shudder at the thought. "Tell me about Captain Blaire," she said instead.  
  
"Ol' Mercy?" Timothy grinned toothily. "Finest female pirate in the Caribbean, I'd say. In the 'ole world even! Ain'tcha never 'eard the stories 'bout 'er?"  
  
"Only a couple and they weren't much," mumbled Margaret, flapping her hands in hope of taking the soreness away.  
  
Timothy shook his head again. "Well, I'll tell ye. This ship ain't called the _Black Fury_ fer nothin', ye know. I ain't never seen a worse temper than Cap'n Mercy's. When she flies into a rage there's nothin' and no one as can stop 'er. Best not to get in 'er way when she's loik that. She'd kill anyone when she's in a temper, whether they be 'er crew or 'er prisoner. Not that she wouldn' do the same in cold blood, though." Timothy scratched his head. "Eh, it's so scary when she kills in cold blood. 'Sloik she's jus' doin' it fer the fun o' it." He shuddered suddenly. "She's killed children, too. Even little babes wot still inside their mams. I ain't never seen nothin' like it."  
  
Margaret shuddered herself. She could barely believe her luck in escaping from the clutches of Captain Mary-Mercer Blaire alive when the latter had even taken to killing unborn children. She couldn't understand why her life was spared but she was doubtless grateful for it. At least she'd get to breathe fresh air a little longer.  
  
"Look! Look out there!" Timothy suddenly cried out, pointing towards the horizon.  
  
A thin pink line bordered by orange below and purple above stretched the whole length of the visible horizon, making it appear as though a gigantic star was about to explode instead of a ball of gas rising to give way to the day.   
  
When the burning head of the sun began to peek above the skyline, Timothy nodded, the liquid-like light reflecting in his dark eyes, and said comfortably, "Eh, I wouldn' give up this life fer anythin'. There's no freedom or power anywhere else as in a pirate's life."  
  
Margaret turned back to him. "How did you become a pirate?"  
  
A slow smile spread over Timothy's face as he went back to his scrubbing. "Eh, it was sort of a dream of mine. An' Cap'n Mercy has my deepest gratitude for makin' it come true. Me father was a pirate, see, but 'e was killed afore I was born an' me mam died jus' after I was born, so I never knew either of 'em. I'd worked as an apprentice to a blacksmith 'cause I was rather good wiv me 'ands. But then I ran away and got picked up by the Cap'n." Timothy grinned wider. "Best day in all me fourteen years."  
  
"Have you actually killed someone already?"  
  
Timothy nodded grimly. "Aye, an' it was a pretty 'ard job, I can tell you. I didn' wanna shoot 'im but 'cause I did, I saved a life. An' that's the on'y good side of it that I can see. The Cap'n doesn' make me do much killin', thankfully. She un'erstands."  
  
"But I don't think I would be so understanding much longer if you spent most of your time chattering instead of working," said an amused voice.  
  
Margaret whirled around to see Mercy gazing at them through lowered eyelids, her lips curved in a small smile. "Breakfast is served, Timmy lad," said Mercy.  
  
Timothy grinned at her sheepishly and scurried off below deck, giving Margaret a curious look over his shoulder before he disappeared.  
  
"How are you getting on, then?" asked Mercy, leaning against the side of the ship and not taking her eyes off Margaret.  
  
"My arms are sore, my legs are numb, my mouth tastes of salt and soap, and my hair is full of knots and tangles!" complained Margaret, pouting.  
  
Mercy grinned. "Such is the life of a pirate. Perhaps now you'll be dissuaded from joining the noble race of scallywags and rascals."  
  
"Never!" Margaret shook her head vigorously. "I _shall_ be a pirate no matter what you say. I'll try my very best."  
  
"Your very best won't be much good," sighed Mercy, "if you haven't got the pride and passion flowing in your veins and pulsing in your soul, savvy? It won't matter how hard you try, lass. I tell you, you'll never be a proper pirate."  
  
Margaret crossed her arms, a mutinous expression crossing her face. "Why do you keep trying to change my mind?"  
  
"Because the pirate world does not need any pretenders. It's either the best or nothing. Otherwise you won't survive. Trust me on that one if on nothing else."  
  
A brief taciturnity hung in the air as Mercy examined the burning sky facing her. "Aurora australis. Southern lights. Also known as the sunrise," she said. "If there's one reason people become pirates, it's because of the primitive natural beauty that the occupation offers. You'll never find anything like this in boxes of rouge or powder, or in bottles of perfume, or delicately coiffured hair. This is the life." She turned her gaze back to Margaret. "I suppose you think that's part of the reason why you want to escape your reality?"  
  
Margaret nodded silently, perching herself on her knees. She cocked her head to one side, studying Mercy through slightly narrowed eyes. "You weren't always a pirate."  
  
"What makes you say that? Of course, we're all pirates from the moment we're born, didn't you know?" commented Mercy sarcastically. Then she turned back to the sunrise. "No, I wasn't always a pirate," she sighed. "No more than most of the crew of this ship, to be honest. There was not enough freedom in my life, you see, and I had to do something about it. I couldn't really live otherwise."  
  
"I'm amazed that the whole world isn't solely populated by pirates," remarked Margaret. "Doesn't everyone want freedom?"  
  
Mercy inclined her head in agreement. "Aye, but there's something that you haven't taken into account, Miss Brooks. The population of the world can be divided into two groups (although I don't particularly agree with that): the so-called good people and the so-called bad people - the good ones being the morally correct and the bad ones the opposite. Now, do you really think that the morals of certain people would allow them to turn into murderous thieving pirates? I don't."  
  
Margaret stayed silent, mulling the words over in her mind. She was very surprised to be having such a conversation with the Captain of the _Black Fury_. It was unheard of! What the people back home would say! Suddenly, she felt a pang of regret and sadness. She was sure it would be a long time before she got to see the remnants of her family again ... though it would be much more easier to deal with for those who didn't have families.   
  
She fastened her eyes on Mercy and voiced a question that had been buzzing in her brain for a couple of minutes. "Don't you miss the life you had before you became a pirate?"  
  
To Margaret's astonishment, Mercy laughed albeit bitterly. "Miss it? No, I don't miss it at all. I see so many more benefits in this life than the other, and if I was given a choice to return I would never accept it. Not even if the devil himself was striking a bargain with me. Tell me, why would I want to leave all this," Mercy stood and twirled around, "for something that I never even wanted?"  
  
"What about your family?"  
  
"This," Mercy spread her arms wide, indicating her surroundings, "is my family, lass. My ship is my love, and the crew are all the family that I'll ever need. This is my life. Sailing for adventure, hunting for treasure, getting drunk off my head on rum, and all on the big blue ocean that I call home. Savvy?" She walked across to the helm and lay her hands on it. Margaret noticed how lovingly Mercy's hands ran along it and suddenly understood: the woman would give her life to save her ship. How odd.  
  
"Enough talk for now," barked Mercy, seemingly settling into a bad temper after a peek at the compass she procurred from somewhere in her vest. "If you want to stay hungry for the rest of the morning, go ahead, and if not, then you'd better hurry off to the kitchens down below. I told Cook to leave a few scraps for you."  
  
Margaret painfully got to her feet and, after a giving a small smile and nod to Mercy, followed the same path Timothy took to the kitchens. She didn't want to be accused of starving herself to death again. 


End file.
